Methods in Madness
by hruss
Summary: What was really going on in Hogwarts when the Golden Trio was away? And is someone actually giving Voldemort rationality lessons?
1. Prologue

_*I do not own Harry Potter, most unfortunately*_

* * *

_May, 1998._

Somewhere in the depths of the esteemed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a young woman sat curled up in a dry, quiet corner.

Only it wasn't all that dry, seeing as the young woman in question had numerous fat streaks of tears streaming down her cheeks.

It also wasn't really quiet, since she happened to be weeping rather loudly.

It wasn't much of a corner, either—most of the wall had been blown clean away, so it was more of a pile of rubble.

The young woman rested between lengthy bouts of misery to regather her strength, before starting all over again.

Such unseemly displays of emotion were generally frowned upon in the Rosier family, but right now Emilia Marianne Rosier-Vane—less ridiculously known as Emma—couldn't bloody care less.

It was all her fault.

Emma blew her nose into a scrap of cloth formerly belonging to Bellatrix Lestrange's favorite set of battle robes.

Then she remembered that self-blame wasn't encouraged in the Rosier family either, and decided that she still cared enough not to blame herself for anything.

So now it was all Ginny Weasley's fault. And Neville Longbottom's. And Tristan Krait's, though Emma couldn't bring herself to blame him just yet. And Tom Riddle's. Ooh, and Albus Dumbledore's too, the old coot.

She felt marginally better, and continued in this vein of thought for some time before coming to the conclusion that Severus Snape was to blame for _everything._ Oh yes, he was.

The whole mess had started with him choosing her to be Head Girl, after all.

_I'll kill him_, she thought grimly, drawing her wand from its sheath.

Wait, he was already dead.

Emma started crying again.


	2. 1: The Bystander Effect

In wartime, keeping your head down and knowing to avoid the right people could well be your only means of survival.

The September 1st crowd in Platform Nine and Three Quarters understood this all too well. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and the station was bursting with magical folk. Yet there were gaping holes like spots of clear water in the inky mass of witches and wizards and screeching owls—_certain_ families were given a wide berth.

Three witches stood in the centre of the platform, seemingly unaware of the five-foot radius of empty concrete around them.

"Got everything, Emilia?" said one of them, a stately woman with coiffed blonde hair.

A dark-haired girl dressed in robes a cut above and six times more expensive than the regular Hogwarts school uniform nodded.

"Yes, Mother." Emma tapped the clasp of her handsome mahogany trunk, which fastened with an oddly sinister click. She jerked her head towards her sister. "What about you, Roda? Forget to pack anything? The esteemed Misters Weasley's concoction of Triple Deluxe Love Potion, perhaps?

Romilda—who was, just to be contrary, wearing robes a cut _below_ and _also,_ since she had bribed the tailor,six times more expensive than the regular Hogwarts school uniform—scowled.

"Yeah, spike _one_ Boy-Who-Lived with love potion and they'll never let you forget that you're an absolute idiot, right?" Emma stepped neatly out of the way as Romilda turned a rather nasty shade of purple and clawed at her with nails that were, coincidentally, painted the same color as her face.

"_Ladies, behave_," hissed Mrs Rosier-Vane. That prompted another "Yes, Mother" from Emma and a bout of eye-rolling from Romilda.

Turning away from her family to look for her friends, Emma squinted at the crowd through the omnipresent steam of Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

Close by, a third-year girl was bawling like a toddler in her mother's arms—Emma sneered a little at this, before remembering they were in the middle of A War. She guiltily shook her head—it was too easy for her to forget, in the seclusion of the sprawling manor she called home and the golden, sun-filled trips to Europe that was her summer; she couldn't _imagine_ what it must be like for them...

Though, she reflected, it was good—in a way—that there was a war, because this year the naked wizard hadn't appeared at the Platform for five minutes before Apparating away, as he'd always did before the Aurors arrived without fail since the 1970s. The fat witch with a boil on her nose who'd always leaned against the platform sign and kept laughing at Emma for no reason was also nowhere to be found.

It was _very_ good that the scum was kept out, just like that.

Emma caught Theodore Nott's eye and gave him a quick nod, and continued to scan the mass of fussing parents and frantic students saying their goodbyes.

Sunlight was streaming through the curved glass ceiling; it really was a beautiful day out. Yet people were huddled together in tight, fearful circles, all conversation reduced to mere whispers and the occasional, plaintive wail. There were an awful lot of people wearing black, almost as if in mourning.

Wait. _An awful lot of people wearing black, and..._masks?

A loud scuffle broke out from somewhere behind her, amidst a chorus of surprised yelps.

_What the—_

She spun around.

"You're not going anywhere, you son of a bitch!" roared a heavyset Death Eater, who sounded vaguely familiar.

Emma was just trying to place the voice when a heavily bleeding someone flung himself out from the crowd and smashed straight into her trunk.

Emma stared.

"_Dean?_" shrieked Romilda, as Emma tried to heave her trunk away to prevent Thomas from dripping any more blood onto it. "Dean, you're not supposed to be here!"

Pushing himself up with a grunt, Dean Thomas clapped a hand to the side of his head—which was bleeding freely—and panted, "_Does—it—look—like—I—got—the—memo—_"

"Dean, run—"

_And the winner of the Most Redundant Comment of the Year goes to...Romilda Rosier-Vane! _

"OI!" "GET HIM!"

Thomas raised his wand.

A sudden flash of light.

"I apologize, but I can't let you do that," said Mrs Rosier-Vane calmly. His wand was now spinning harmlessly in her manicured fingers. "They've got Anti-Apparation wards all over the place. Give it up; you might hurt someone if you fight. The station's packed."

"_Mother_," exclaimed Romilda, horrified, "Mother, _what are you do_—" Her mouth continued to move wordlessly as Emma hit her with a Silencing Charm.

"Stop it, Roda, or I'll have to Stun you, too," muttered Emma, as the younger girl whirled around, flushed in anger and desperation. "_You can't. There's nothing we can do. _You need to understand."

Before Romilda could respond, the crowd around them parted in an almost rehearsed manner to reveal four Death Eaters, who were making their way over in what could only be described as a stroll. One of them flicked his wand lazily; a long, vicious length of black ribbon shot towards Thomas and bound his wrists and ankles tightly together. Romilda flinched outwardly.

The Death Eaters stopped in their steps, just close enough that Emma could see the delicate engravings on each of their masks. She gripped Romilda's arm.

"Madam Rosier." The one who tied up Thomas gave a small bow to Emma's mother.

Mrs Rosier-Vane handed him Thomas's wand, her expression unfathomable.

"Thank you." He bowed again, and hauled up Thomas by his collar.

"_WAIT_, PLEASE, NO, MY FATHER IS A WIZARD—"

Cold, cold laughter. "Oh, but that's what they all say."

In a single synchronized move, all four Death Eaters pulled up their left sleeves and pressed their wands to their Dark Marks; the venomous black of the tattoo vanished, replaced by a luminous green, which brightened and brightened...

When the light had finally disappeared, they were gone, as was Emma's schoolmate of seven years.

"I must say," murmured Mrs Rosier-Vane in the silence that followed. "Mulciber is looking rather pudgy of late."

...

...

Romilda seized her trunk and marched away.

Emma stared after her, then at her mother. One set of blue-grey eyes met another, and the next thing she knew she was pressed lightly against the older woman, breathing in her expensive perfume.

"Emilia, just_ stay safe_—"

"I will. And I'll take care of Roda, I promise."

"Don't let her get herself killed."

"Of course. I'll kill her if I have to."

They broke apart.

"Your father says to write if you need anything from Albania."

"Tell him I said thank you. I suppose I'll be off, then."

"Go."

They were never for emotional goodbyes.

Emma leviated her trunk through the train window and hopped into the carriage.

As she looked out to the platform she thought she saw a look of sheer terror pass through her mother's face, but the witch had quickly composed herself and waved as if nothing had happened. Swallowing, Emma gave her a small smile before hurrying—no, _fleeing_—down the corridor, her trunk floating behind her in pursuit like an oddly shaped balloon.

She was terribly aware that EVERYONE WAS STARING AT HER.

She pushed past a throng of sixth years, whose heads swiveled to track her.

_Maybe it's just egocentric bias, _she thought desperately, raising her chin a fraction higher.

Her breathing evened a little.

Yes, that's it—Egocentric bias, or Self-as-target Bias: most people just tend to overestimate the amount of attention fixated on them. No one is really judging or blaming her for what happened. It was probably the sort of thing that occurred ALL THE TIME nowadays; maybe there _is_ such a thing as being overly pessimistic; there's no reason to assume that everyone now thinks she went Dark—

"I heard half her family are Death Eaters. You know old Mad-Eye? You know that missing chunk in his nose? They say her uncle did it," floated up the voice of a Hufflepuff third-year who was walking behind her, in what he probably thought was a whisper.

"The Rosiers are a bad lot, everyone knows that..."

"Isn't she Malfoy's cousin or something?"

"That's weird, I could have sworn they were _dating_—"

"Well, inbreeding's all the rage with _them_..."

"Hey, has anyone seen my toad?"

"Why's the sister in Gryffindor?"

"Brenda said she tried to poison Harry Potter last year..."

"She looked pretty sorry for Dean though."

"Not _her_." A short pause—approximately the length of time to point dramatically at someone directly in front of oneself. "Why isn't _she_ in Slytherin?"

"Careful, she'll hex your ears off..."

_Alright, forget about egocentric bias._

With a mounting sense of dread (and after two well-aimed Langlock Jinxes), Emma made her way towards the compartment right at the head of the Hogwarts Express. The Head's compartment. _Bad start, Emma. Very very Bad Start._ Her heart was sinking as she unpinned the Head Girl's badge from her uniform and pressed it into a depression on the door where the handle should have been. It was an exact fit. And the door slid smoothly open.

"Oh," moaned Emma, her heart sinking past her feet to somewhere below the train tracks. "You."


	3. 2: A Very Bad Idea

"Me," said Tristan Krait firmly, holding up his shiny new badge.

Making up her mind, Emma quickly entered with her trunk. "Who in their right mind would make you Head Boy?" she all but shrieked the second the door closed behind her.

"For a second there I almost thought you were not pleased to see me."

Emma slid into the seat opposite him as her trunk zoomed into the overhead compartment (which, she noticed sadly, also happened to contain Tristan's luggage). "I _am_ pleased to see you! Just not here! You're _Evil_! You can't be Head Boy!"

Tristan rolled his eyes. "Considering the new...regime, I highly doubt that they would choose a bloody Gryffindor, or worse, a _Hufflepuff_, Emma."

"But you weren't even a prefect!" Her mind raced, her finger tapping involuntarily against her wand. Perhaps she could find Professor Snape after the Feast tonight, persuade him...

"You yourself weren't prefect in fifth year."

_Touche._ "I was in sixth."

"Yeah, thank your lucky stars that Patil's parents didn't want her to attend school last year and made her give up her prefect status. Congratulations on being second choice."

Emma didn't react to the jibe; she hadn't grown up with Pansy Parkinson, Regina Rosier-Vane _and _Draco Malfoy for nothing. "Oh? Like Professor Snape would have chosen you over Draco." Her voice grew hushed at the mention of her cousin, who was under house arrest at the moment.

"It's obvious I'm the brightest and most responsible in my year."

"You're Evil," she insisted.

"Mademoiselle Pot, how black you are today!"

"I beg your pardon?!"

Smirking, Tristan tapped the window with a finger. "I saw the entire mess. Ah, let me guess. People are already talking about how you're the next Bellatrix Lestrange."

She heaved a sigh. "Apparently I'm dating Draco, too. I don't know which one's worse."

"Hypocrites," he said softly, sinking back into his seat. "A few weeks down the road they'll be no better. By then they'll be making all manners of excuses for themselves—'_oh, but we had no choice_.' Ironic, isn't it, how now they're content to sit back and quietly disapprove of you 'idly standing by'. That's how the Dark Lord won the last time, and he'll win again if the most action people take is _whisper amongst themselves_. It's pathetic. They'd watch the whole world burn to a crisp as long as they aren't consumed by flames."

Emma felt a pang of something like shame—that last, brutally honest line just about perfectly captured her philosophy. His words made a lot of sense, come to think of it, but if they were meant to be reassuring, they were not working. "You're criticizing _both _sides of the faction," she pointed out.

He held up a hand. "Pause. Tell me, what have you read up on in the holidays?"

By this year, Emma was too used to the Slytherin's non-sequitur conversational style to be thrown off. "_Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,_ and the like."

Tristan nodded to himself, as if to confirm something he'd thought of. "Read up much on Grindelward?"

"Of course." She rolled her eyes. _Why else would she be in Ravenclaw?_

"What about the Muggle side of that war?"

Emma looked up sharply and thought of all the forbidden, carefully Transfigured books in her trunk. "Tristan, I don't think we should be—"

He smiled. "A big gold star for quick thinking. I already secured this compartment—Merlin, Emma, I'm not born yesterday, you know! Apparently someone _did _set a charm to record everything we say, so naturally I made some, uh, modifications to it. Now instead all they are going to hear is us doing some rather unspeakable things to each other."

"BUT WE'RE NOT—"

He had the nerve to wink.

"I did read up on Muggle World War Two, yes," she said faintly.

"Then I trust you'll understand this." He rummaged through his pockets until he found a Chocolate Frog Card. Emma blinked, bewildered, as he tapped the card with his wand—it transformed into a small scrap of parchment. He cleared his throat theatrically and began reading from it.

_"First they came for the socialists,_

_ and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a socialist._

_Then they came for the trade unionists, _

_and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist._

_Then they came for the Jews, _

_and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew._

_Then they came for me, _

_and there was no one left to speak for me."_

"Only there already isn't," said Emma quietly, after he had finished, "anyone left to speak for anyone."

He quirked an eyebrow.

"Potter doesn't count," she said.

They exchanged a look.

When they were done laughing, Tristan said, "I might have to disagree with you, Emma. Some of our voices are still intact. We just don't want to get caught in the crossfire, at least not yet."

Emma gasped. "Surely you're not thinking of..."

She recognized the gleam in his eyes. The one that meant he had an Idea.

There were two people in the world you'd never, ever want to see with the "hey, I have an Idea" gleam in their eyes. One was Romilda Rosier-Vane. Tristan Krait was the other.

"Tristan, you don't know what you're saying."

"Trust me, I know what I'm talking about," he said coolly, some of the humor leaving his expression. Emma felt a small chill, as she did whenever he got like that. "No, listen, Emma, I've been thinking—"

"Look, we're moving," she said quickly, in a desperate, futile attempt to distract him.

"Mm?" The train was indeed pulling out of the platform, and they silently watched parents and children who were yet not old enough to attend Hogwarts bestow last-minute goodbyes through the haze to those onboard; some were weeping quite hysterically.

A young boy who couldn't be older than five was running after the Hogwarts Express as fast as he possibly could, his little legs pumping and his face flushed dark red. But he had reached the end of the platform; he was calling out something, but his words were snatched away by the wind. The Hogwarts Express was picking up speed—soon he receded into a mere tiny speck in the leftover steam. Emma turned away from the window and regarded Tristan sternly, as if daring him to say anything.

He opened his mouth, but she firmly spoke over him, "I don't want to hear it."

He barreled ahead anyway. "Emma, I think—"

"We're only seventeen, Tristan!" she burst out. "Seventeen-year-olds shouldn't have to think such things."

His jaw twitched. "Seventeen is of age. So maybe it's time for us to grow up."

"We don't have to. Not us. You and I, we're purebloods. We've got the whole world at our feet, at least for now. We don't have to throw it all away, for—for _them_—"

Tristan smiled at her the way a father smiles at his beloved but rather dim baby. "Mudbloods? For those 'beneath' to us? Come on now, Emma, you know you don't believe that anymore."

"It's not about blood anymore," said Emma, glaring at him. "Or... Maybe it is. It's about the blood _that doesn't have to be shed_, Tristan!"

"You really haven't understood the poem, have you? Look at Draco! Look at Lucius Malfoy!"

How she hated the way he always sounded so _right_, even though he was completely _wrong_... "They made mistakes," she said firmly. "We won't make mistakes if we don't get involved. You may be slightly over seventeen, but if you think you can get out unscathed—yes, _you_, Tristan—I may start thinking that your _IQ_ isn't." She hadn't meant it; Tristan Krait was the one seventeen-year-old in the world she thought could pull off anything.

He scowled at her. "Let's just say the Dark Lord doesn't turn on us. What's his ultimate goal?"

Emma mentally sighed. Conversations with Tristan never contained transition words of any sort; he just introduced new threads abruptly and without warning and you were expected to follow instead of yelling at him. Many of her best insults had perished this way.

"Um, to eradicate all the mud... Muggle-borns?" Maybe she should start writing down the insults on little pieces of parchment and periodically throw them at his head every time it got too big.

Said head scrutinized her, unaware of its potential unfortunate, parchment-filled future. "And then?"

"Annihilating the Muggle world."

"Do you think he could _win_?"

Emma sucked in a breath. "Atomic bombs," she said automatically. "_Fat Man_ and _Little Boy_." The most powerful and destructive (and poorly-named) weapons in the world had been created by Muggles—_50 years ago. _How many _Protego Maximuses_ could deflect a nuclear blast?

"Right. And suppose the Dark Lord realizes his mistake. He needs to know about Muggle weaponry, and how he can utilize that from a wizarding point of view, right? Now who knows about all that?"

"Muggle-borns."

"All of whom he has already killed." He spread his arms. "Oops."

Oops.

"Suppose," he continued, "that he gets his hands on a nuclear weapon anyway, and tortures a Muggle scientist into telling him how to work it. Not telling him about the methods of pure science and rational thinking, mind you, but simply how to work it."

" _'Knowledge without wisdom is disaster'_. A full-blown Muggle-wizard nuclear war—" Her voice rose. "Nothing will be left of the world but a heap of ashes!"

"And where will we be then? Siding with Dumbledore's little army wouldn't work, either. We'll just settle back into our sad, medieval lifestyles after defeating the Dark Lord, while the Muggles grow strong enough to become an even bigger threat. No, what we need is to master _both_ the Muggle and wizarding worlds _without _losing the benefits of Muggle technology—"

Emma sat bolt upright. "You're talking about introducing a _third _faction? Breaking the Statute of Secrecy?"

He bowed.

_What the devil—_

_You're not very surprised, though_, remarked a wry voice in her head.

This was followed by a succession of other voices, who all seemed to be arguing rather rapidly.

Emma wanted to scream, but instead just asked plaintively, "_Why us?_"

"We are the only ones who can see things for what they are, Emma," Tristan answered promptly, "No one else can. Even the Muggle-borns stopped learning science from the age of eleven."

"You're insane," she informed him. "And I don't share your hero complex." _Not to mention the way you seem to be REALLY oversimplifying the problem._

"No hero complex? Imagine a world where _every single intelligent person_ thought the same way as you do."

"Then I'd be a darn fool to think any other way."

He squinted at her. "You've been reading Catch-22, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Well you're reading too much. I don't like it."

_"You're insane."_

There was a short, pregnant pause. "What if _everyone else_ were insane but me? When the world is reduced to nothing more than a heap of ashes and you're scavenging for food in the ruins that used to be a civilization, do you really want to think, _'Oh, if only I'd listened to Tristan back in seventh year!_"?"

"But why are you even telling me this?" How was it in the five years they had known each other, she hadn't sensed anything even _close_ to this bubbling under the surface of this odd, genius boy?

"I need you," said the odd, genius boy, who could very well be the next Dark Lord.

Her mouth twisted wryly, even though Emma couldn't help but feel flattered. "Well, that's new." _And like hell you're actually fool enough to trust me_.

Tristan took a deep breath. "You're the only Rosier, _ever_, to be familiar with Muggle politics, history and science and _accept it._"

_Because you bullied me into it._

"You covertly control Hogwarts rumor mill without attracting any attention, and the dynamics of Slytherin interhouse politics without suspicion. You're not even in the damn house! —Oh, don't look like that, you think I didn't know? Notes passed between you and Tracey Davis, Zelda Dobinski seeking advice on her Bitch War with Pansy, Draco quietly asking you last year where he might obtain arsenic... You're not exactly Miss Popular—sorry—but you know how to manage the most difficult people in the school and what to say to them to make them keep coming back to you, a trusted, neutral third party! I see all of it, Em, but Merlin help me, I've never managed to replicate it."

It was true—Tristan, while more devious in his arguments, more compelling, simply couldn't communicate like a human being. His conversations always seem too controlled, his words too practiced. While people were taken in by his charisma, they always sensed he was different, that he wasn't one of them.

He had use for her.

"I... I need to think about this." She rubbed her temples.

"Take your time."

Emma scowled. "Only I can't, because we have to conduct the Prefects' Meeting in, oh, I don't know, five minutes."

"_I completely forgot.._." He said a very bad word.

"We ought to discuss what to say. Now." She panicked slightly—he probably hadn't even read the Heads' booklet.

Tristan frowned. "Actually, I already know what to say. Prefect duties—patrol corridors of train and school, stop people from going to Hogsmeade illegally, make sure students are not killing each other, be a general uptight prick, take as little House points from your own House as possible, give out detention to people you don't like, shag each other half to death in their special bathroom, be meaner to Mudblood to let the Death Eaters have a more favorable impression of you—did I miss anything?"

Emma looked at him, surprised. "You actually did read the booklet, didn't you?"

"Do I detect an attempt to question my sense of responsibility?"

She rolled her eyes again. "Of course not, Mr Krait."

"Then let us depart to our Meeting of Extreme Importance, instead of discussing lesser things such as the Third Wizarding War. Come along, Miss Rosier-Vane."

* * *

The prefect's carriage was still relatively empty when they entered. Hannah Abbott and Ernie Macmillian waved hesitantly, already seated, and there was a slightly jumpy-looking fifth year that Emma didn't recognize, and that was it.

"Where are the others?" she asked Hannah.

The other girl shrugged. "They're probably on their way."

Ernie glanced at Emma's badge. "Wait... That's not a prefect's badge! You're Head Girl? Congratulations!" She must have look confused, for Ernie puffed up his chest pompously. "You know, Emma, I just want to say for the record that I don't think any less of you after what happened at the platform. You can't chose who your family is, and taking on four Death Eaters would just be a foolish thing to do."

She was just about to respond when Tristan strode in front of her.

"Hello, Hufflepuffs." He sounded falsely chirpy.

Ernie scowled at him. "You?"

The Head Boy gave an airy wave. "Why is that _everybody's_ first reaction? I know Professor Snape's the new headmaster, but it doesn't mean that everyone should be a grumpy git like him too."

As the fifth year tittered, Ernie relaxed a little. "Never knew you Slytherins didn't like Snape, either."

"_Headmaster_ Snape, Macmillian," Tristan corrected drily. "He's alright, but one is well aware that he is not a charming man."

The door opened again, and this time a stream of people came into the carriage. A quick head count told Emma that all the prefects were present, save one. She distinctly heard someone mutter, "Better him than Malfoy!" and cleared her throat loudly. "I'm taking attendance!"

She took out a roll of parchment from her pocket. "Hannah Abbott."

"Here."

"Ernie Macmillian."

"Present, of course."

"Pansy Parkinson."

"Here!"

"Blaise Zabini."

"Here."

"Padma Patil."

"Here. You didn't reply my last owl!"

"I received it an hour before leaving for King's Cross, Padma! Don't be silly. Anthony Goldstein."

"Emilia Rosier-Vane." He mimicked her tone.

"Sod off, Tony. Hermio... Um. Parvati Patil?"

"Here." Emma looked up to meet the dark, intelligent eyes of the other Patil twin. _So they've replaced Granger._

"Ronald Weasley."

Silence.

Emma looked up again. "Ronald?"

Pansy emitted a derisive snort. "Weasel isn't here, Emma. And Mudblood Granger too, naturally."

An outraged hiss escaped from a girl Emma vaguely recognized as one of her sister's cronies. "_You _bitch_, how dare you_—"

"Thank you, that's quite enough, Victoria. And you too, Pansy," Emma snapped as Pansy smirked and began to say something. "You're prefects, for Merlin's sake. Don't use that kind of language again. One point from Gryffindor. And Slytherin."

Both girls looked glowered. "You can't take points before school even began—"

"Can't I?" asked Emma flatly. "So, an absentee? I'll have to tell Professor McGonagall..."

Tristan snatched the name list from Emma. "The rest are all here. Don't have to waste time on attendance."

Pansy snickered; Emma glared at him. "Right," she said, feeling a little self-aware as all eyes trained on her. "Obviously, Tristan and I are Head Boy and Girl this year. Get used to this, because we're the ones who will be conducting all prefect meetings, which will take place once every fortnight. And as I demonstrated just now—" Emma gave a slightly mocking nod to Victoria, who scowled. "—The Heads have the power to dock points from any House for student misdemeanors." She shifted, speaking to the fifth year prefects in particular. "Prefects are also allowed to dock points, but only from their own House, and for small offences only. You can also issue detentions as a form of punishment. Serious offences are to be reported to your respective Heads of Houses, not dealt with by yourself."

"Small offences," drawled Tristan, "include name-calling, wearing the uniform incorrectly, breaking curfew, and otherwise petty things that nobody really cares about, with the exception of Filch, who seems to think such behavior deserves a lifelong service in Azkaban." Several prefects chuckled. "Serious offences include cheating, getting caught in extremely compromising positions while not yet of age—" He waggled his eyebrows at Blaise, who grinned unabashedly. "—using forbidden curses, and being Harry Potter, who, I believe have lost as many points for Gryffindor as he had gained from blatant favoritism." Even the Gryffindors chortled a little at this. But his tone grew serious. "However, as Professor Dumbledore had... retired under extremely unfortunate circumstances last year, I'll have to warn you that Professor Snape may hold very different views on rule-breaking." He looked at Emma, who took the cue.

"There will be significant changes this year, I'm afraid." She gazed solemnly at the prefects. "In addition to Dementors, Death Eaters will be standing guard at Hogwarts." There was a collective gasp. "We were told they're there solely for your safety. But I'd urge you to keep your peers from toeing the line at all costs, if you know what I mean." Paling, they all nodded, except for a few Slytherins, who looked smug.

Tristan took over. "On a slightly more boring mode, the roster for patrol and Hogsmeade duty will be sent to you after dinner tonight." A collective groan. "And as always, after the Feast, fifth year prefects will be taking the first years from their respective Houses to their dormitories and explaining the school layout and rules."

Emma was surprised; he really _did_ read through the booklet. She could reconcile with the idea of him being Head Boy, she supposed. "You'll also have to patrol the Hogwarts Express later, from time to time," she added.

Tristan grinned. "Now, fifth years, let me tell you about the prefects' bathroom..."


	4. 3: Replacing Existing Evils with Others

"Tristan," said Emma suddenly, coming to such an abrupt halt that the Slytherin nearly walked into her. The meeting had ended—much to Tristan's glee—and they were heading back to find their friends.

"What is it?"

"Hand me the name list."

He handed it over, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Emma's eyes flicked down the parchment. "I was right. They've replaced half of the prefects."

Tristan pulled the name list toward himself. "Yep. Richard Stebbins was supposed to be the sixth year Hufflepuff prefect, not Herbert Fleet."

"Stebbins was Muggle-born. Like Granger."

The blood drained from Emma's face as a horrible thought struck her, and she instinctively bit her lip to get some of the color back.

She managed to find her voice. "Do you think they've... they've _all _turned themselves in?" _Anyone who went on the run wouldn't just have their wands snapped, they would be tortured and maybe even _killed_..._

"Most are on the run, probably," he said, as if that were something reassuring. "The Muggle-born Registration Commission thingy was _published_ in the _Prophet_, after all. Must have given them a heads-up to pack their things and take off. Though evidently Thomas doesn't subscribe."

Emma shook her head. "If you're a Muggleborn and given two choices:

a) Turn yourself in to the ministry, and get a relatively light sentence in Azkaban and some everyday, garden-variety torture, or

b) Go on the run. If you get caught, you get an Azkaban sentence that's considerably heavier—you're placed very near the Dementor pit—or be used as Avada Kedavra target practice. But if you evade capture, then good for you.

Which would you pick?"

"Uhh. If you put it that way..." Tristan faced her, walking backward down the corridor and looking intrigued. "I'm pretty sure the odds of getting caught and evading capture is not 50-50—it's a lot closer to the 'getting caught' side, what with all the detection wards around magical Britain. So while Option A is a definite but relatively _small_ disadvantage, Option B is a much higher _risk_ since I have a lot more to lose—

"—Also a heavy sentence in Azkaban or Avada Kedavra is much more likely to _kill_ you than a lighter one and garden-variety torture, and being dead is much, much worse than a little suffering from turning yourself in!"

"This dominates the utility function... So no matter what Option A is better. It's the rational choice." He shrugged. "So?"

"Some people aren't rational," said Emma impatiently. "The existence of Gryffindors just about proves this! As you said, there'll be people who would _foolishly _decide to go on the run..."

His eyebrows leapt up. "Since when do you care about the fates of Muggleborn Gryffindors?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. "I just think... Being tortured or killed for simply being _stupid_ is a bit much."

"Eh, they don't call themselves Death Eaters for nothing. _Ehhhhhhmma_, do you see?" His eyes were as bright as stars. "This is exactly why _we_ need to do something!"

Ignoring him, Emma rolled up the name list. "If the Dark Lord is really so bent on getting rid of Muggle-borns, isn't it a much smarter move for the Ministry to let all of them return to Hogwarts—well, those who are thick enough to anyway—_and then_ capture them without warning? Instead of, you know, driving them into hiding and putting much more effort into finding them?"

"Whoever's behind the Commission probably assumed the punishment for evading capture is enough to be a deterrence. Sadly mistaken, of course. There will always be a handful of troublemakers who would disagree."

"And troublemaking mudbloods are _precisely _the kind of people the Dark Lord wants to eliminate."

Tristan sighed dramatically. "Rule Number 1 of a Highly Efficient Dark Lord—never give your enemies _any chance whatsoever._ Ergo, the Dark Lord... Not very Dark Lord-y. Don't you feel better about my Third Faction already?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "What, you haven't come up with a name for this third faction yet? How unlike you."

He clapped in such a childlike way that made her almost forget that he was in fact, really, a highly intelligent, of-age wizard who may or may not be the most dangerous person born in her generation. "Now you're getting into the spirit! See, at first I was thinking 'Tristan Krait's Minions of Doom, but then again, not very original..."

Emma glanced through the glass in a compartment door. "Well, well. Speaking of minions."

"Where are you—"

She slid the door open with a bang. "Put that wand down, Longbottom. Weasley, I want a word."

Having leapt up from their seats, Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley eyed her warily.

Emma ignored their glares and walked straight into their compartment, pulling Tristan with her. With a wave of her hand, the door shut behind them.

"Where are Hermione and Ronald? And Potter, for a matter of fact?" A quick scan of the compartment told Emma that it contained only Weasley, Longbottom and, to her surprise, Luna Lovegood, who was looking up from her magazine with vague interest. Potter, of course, was nowhere to be found.

"—Let's not tell each other atrocious lies," cut in Emma, when Weasley tried to say something, "I know you know."

"Though it's none of your business, Rosier..." _My, my, wasn't it funny how only Death Eaters and Gryffindors called her that. _"My brother's down with splattergroit. And Hermione's on the run, haven't you heard?" Weasley's lip curled.

_Liar._ Emma was usually against performing Legilimency on unsuspecting people, but Weasley (she was a Weasley, after all) was simply abysmal at Occlumency—she was practically _broadcasting_ her thoughts. And the deliberate failure to mention Potter—insultingly transparent.

She decided to play along. "No, I haven't."

Weasley put her hand to her mouth in mock surprise. "A Ravenclaw? Being uninformed? My, isn't that something new."

"Well?" snapped Emma. "You do know I have to file a report for missing persons to the Headmaster. Do you want to have a say in what goes into that report or not?"

Weasley squinted at her. "I haven't heard from her for a month," she said slowly.

_Huh. Truth. _

"Where's Potter?" said Tristan brusquely.

"Don't know."

_What? Truth? Impossible_. Emma changed the question instead. "What is Potter doing right now?"

"Don't. Know."

Emma swooped in on the redhead, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Longbottom was staring at her rather oddly. "Oh, I don't think so. This you do know."

Weasley met her eyes defiantly—big mistake. "I'm not lying."

A brief silence. "Of course not. Just like how all three of the Golden Trio isn't out there somewhere, trying to single-handedly destroy the Dark Lord."

"_I never said—_"

The compartment door crashed open, and in came one of the ugliest women Emma had ever seen. In Death Eater robes.

Longbottom's wand snapped up. "Who are—"

The woman leered at him. "HA, thought I smelled trouble! Longbottom, is it? That's _Professor Carrow_ to you, you blood traitor. And who are you?" she bellowed at Emma.

Recovering quickly from the shock, Emma replied smoothly, "Emilia Rosier-Vane, Professor. I'm Head Girl this year. You see, Tristan and I were just interrogating the blood traitors for the whereabouts of Potter." Something told her she couldn't afford to get on this woman's bad side.

Carrow's eyes flickered briefly to the badges on her and Tristan's chests, and her boulder-like face cracked into a hideous smile. "Rosier?" she said, completely ignoring the "Vane" part. "Helpful, aren't you? Severus had definitely made the right choice, yes." Weasley looked livid. "So where is he?"

Emma smiled sweetly back at her, making up her mind to tell the truth. It wouldn't help the Death Eaters—this only confirmed what they suspected—and since Potter and his friends were probably going to get caught soon anyway, it wouldn't hurt them too much. Well, apart from blowing Ronald's cover, but it wouldn't be necessary to tell the _whole _truth; getting his entire family into trouble just wasn't done.

Besides, an added bonus—putting Potter's favorite gingers into her debt could come in useful in the future.

"Professor, Potter's apparently so deluded of his own abilities that he ran off without telling anyone to overthrow the Dark Lord, presumably single-handedly." Carrow roared with laughter. "His alleged best friend, Weasley's brother—" Emma nodded at the redhead. "—is of course down with splattergroit and fortunately unable to join him, though even if he did he wouldn't be of much use anyway." (Weasley, at least, was trying her best not to look surprised; Longbottom was frowning.) "Potter's other friend, the mudblood Granger, is of course on the run from the Ministry. Most likely she's either with Potter, or out of the country by now."

Carrow's piggy, mud brown eyes met Emma's cool grey ones. Her heart hammering in her chest, Emma prepared her Occlumency barriers, but the expected mind-probing did not come.

"And you're sure of this?" the Death Eater inquired.

Tristan stepped in with a silky smile. "We're not trained in Legilimency, Professor, but we're familiar with the theory. We can tell when we're being lied to." At this, a look of comprehension flashed across Weasley's face, and her eyes shot daggers at Emma (who was too busy giving Tristan a mental high-five to glare back).

"Though that's not saying much, Professor." Emma allowed herself to smirk. "The blood traitors are... Oh, how do I put it? Too much of a _liability_ to be considered by Potter to be his confidants."

Weasley, to her credit, snarled at her.

Carrow frowned. "Really? They were in the Department of Mysteries with Potter..."

"Me too," piped up Luna.

"You're that old loon Xeno's daughter!" Carrow had apparently just noticed her.

Tristan sniggered. "Professor, I think perhaps they were there by mistake. Even Potter wouldn't have chosen this bunch of losers to be his friends."

"I suppose," sneered Carrow, "They don't know nothing at all, do they?" She looked at Tristan appraisingly. "Head Boy, is it?"

"The name's Tristan Krait, Professor."

"Krait?" Carrow squinted at him suspiciously. "Haven't heard of that one before."

"I'm American, Professor."

Carrow tutted, treating the rest of the compartment to an obscene dance by her many chins. "You're pureblood?"

"Of course, Professor."

The Death Eater took a step out of the compartment. "Wonderful. I have little doubt as to your abilities, children, but Amycus and I would have to interrogate these three just in case they really know where Potter is."

"I most certainly am not going to speak to you! Or Amycus! Um! Whoever that is!" Weasley's eyes flashed.

Carrow grinned and turned to go. "I'm sure you can be persuaded."

"Professor," called Emma, "May I suggest Headmaster Snape be present at the interrogation as well? I'm sure having an established authoritative figure there will help immensely with the... persuasion."

"Excellent idea, excellent. I will be sure to invite him." Carrow chortled hideously and clomped away, to everyone's immense relief.

Emma leaned in, aware that Weasley and Longbottom were staring, in a mixture of wonderment and anger, at her and Tristan. "I don't know how much you know, but if you're smart you'll remove all memories of whatever crucial information you possess in your little brains, including this conversation. On the train. And I don't mean Oblivate, either. Do you know how to extract a memory?"

"I do," said Weasley, and, for some reason, flushed a dark red.

"Do that, and get someone to modify your memory so the gaps won't be noticeable. You've got to make sure you know absolutely nothing at all. Nothing, understand? They're going to find out that your brother is with Potter sooner or later, and they'll definitely give you a rough time then. You've got to be perfectly innocent. Don't give them any reason to hurt you." Weasley's eyes widened.

Tristan spoke up. "Look for Michae... Er, I mean, Terry Boot." (Emma had shot Tristan with the best Discreet Deadly Look she could muster) "Tell him what we told you and he'll help."

"Wait," said Longbottom dubiously. "If you're helping us, why did you ask for Snape to be at the interrogation?

"He's learned tap dancing over the summer and wants to show you his rad moves," said Tristan without so much as a pause.

"Goodbye to you and ten points from Gryffindor." Emma shrugged noncommittally. "Well, it would look suspicious otherwise."

"Thanks," said Weasley quietly.

"See you in the common room later, Emma." Luna went back to her magazine.

Longbottom didn't say anything at all.

"This never happened," hissed Tristan at the trio, and took Emma by the arm.

And they left.

* * *

"What on earth was that about?" Tristan exclaimed, once they were far enough away.

Emma bit her lip. "They'll be questioned at one point or another, and since it's Death Eaters we're talking about, I doubt that their method of interrogation would be politely asking questions over a cup of tea!"

"So we saved them from torture only to subject them to Snape-y Mind Rape instead."

She huffed. "If you have to put it that way."

The corner of his mouth quirked, even as his cheery, melodramatic veneer faded. Emma could almost see the coolness envelop his eyes; this was the part of him he never showed to anyone else. "Well, when you make up your mind about what I proposed," he said in a dry, very different voice, "I wasn't wrong about you making a decent right-hand woman."

He put his hands in his pockets and strode away, leaving Emma to stare after his retreating back.

* * *

"I can explain," said Emma. She was squeezed in a compartment with most of her friends; Tristan had probably gone to look for his housemates Theodore Nott and Tracey Davis.

Terry Boot—who had just entered the compartment looking rather bemused—shrugged and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I think Ginny explained pretty well."

She studied his face carefully. "I hope you didn't mind."

"No," he said, grinning, "But I would've liked a head's up. You can imagine it was a bit weird, to say the least."

"Duly noted." _Three of your schoolmates appearing out of nowhere and requesting you to modify their memories was a bit weird, indeed._

"Can you tell us the rest of us plebeians what's going on?" demanded Michael Corner in a muffled voice (he was the tallest of them all and was therefore banished to window seat, his face pressed flat against the windowpane).

"Certainly not," said Emma.

"Later," muttered Terry to Michael, none too subtly.

Michael smirked at Emma.

"Oh, never mind us, then," grumbled Su Li. She was a small, loud Asian girl who was either laughing or furious, but nowhere in between.

"Stop sulking and eat your Chocolate Frog, it's running away," advised Isobel MacDougal, putting one end of her dark braid into her mouth and chewing it thoughtfully.

"_Eeek_, it's—oh. _Oh_."

Everyone fell silent.

The frog had stopped abruptly in its wild, chocolaty bid for freedom to settle comfortably instead into the sole empty seat in the compartment.

The seat that had, until today, had always been occupied by Lisa Turpin.

Su awkwardly scooped up the frog and jerked away, as if scalded.

But the damage was done; the conversation petered out, never quite recovering, like a little bug that had just been squished.

Emma pretended to go to sleep, glad that the ratting of the train could mask her shivering. Regina had warned her plenty of times that making friends with Muggle-borns could be a mistake. Much like Romilda, the proud, scornful Regina had never suffered from uncertainty about anything, even when she was completely wrong. But right now, Emma wondered if her older sister could have had a point.

If only Emma had been crueler, if she hadn't apologized after calling Lisa a mudblood for taking her hairbrush the first night after they were Sorted into Ravenclaw, then she wouldn't ever had to feel like that.

What was Liz doing now?

Emma shifted, feeling the cheap fabric of the seat scratch at her face.

If only she had chosen Slytherin, if she'd made friends with Tracey Davis and the insufferably vain Zelda Dobinski instead.

Emma got up very quietly and left for the Head's compartment. She needed to be alone.

* * *

A man paused in the middle of admiring his own magnificent, terrifying reflection in a dinner plate he had obtained forcibly from Lucius Malfoy. Something was off, _very_ off; he could smell it in the air.

"Who's there?" hissed Lord Voldemort.

"Greetingsss from Grand Duke Appleby Chester Wilson Snapdragon Lemmywinks Brian Brain McFisticuffs the Negative 10th," said a voice from the gloom.

_What,_ thought Lord Voldemort.

"Just trying to make a point that asking 'who's there?' doesn't always warrant an honest answer, you know. A sneaky, impolite Avada Kedavra from behind, perhaps, but that's hardly the kind of answer you'd want, no?"

He had never, ever been spoken to like that before.

The Dark Lord snapped around, his red eyes widening and wand slashing down. His Killing Curse cracked against the opposite wall, bounced once, sadly, and hit nothing.

For the first time in this new life, Lord Voldemort felt the first tremors of something like fear.

The silence of the surrounding stone walls pressed maddeningly in on him, then—

A huge silver snake—twice as large as Nagini—materialized lazily where his wand had been pointing moments before. It was a Patronus Charm, the one spell he'd never managed to cast.

"Hello," said the snake in the same ambiguous voice as before. It sounded like neither a man nor a woman; as cool and inhuman as the rustling of autumn leaves against the ground outside.

"...What do you want?"

"I have been sent to speak to you."

"And who might have the _audacity_ to do that?"

The glowing snake paused; its forked tongue moved without sound, like it was laughing.

_"Well? Who is it?!" _

_If it said Grand Duke Appleby Whatsit he would—_

"Ambrosiusss. It's _Ambrosiusss._"


	5. 4: An Introduction to the New Regime

A trail of horseless carriages moved eerily through the night, rattling past the thick, knotted trees of the Forbidden Forest. Thestrals, thought Emma vaguely, but her mind was elsewhere. A thick layer of dead leaves crunched loudly beneath the wheels of her carriage, and the air reeked of dampness—a storm was brewing.

A bad sign, she told herself.

Tristan had joined her in the Head's compartment earlier, and Emma had loudly and very pointedly refused to speak with him about his still-yet-to-be-named Third Faction. She'd, in fact, insisted so loudly and pointedly that in the end she got her way, and instead they had a long conversation speculating why they had been chosen as Head Boy and Girl, and what the rest of the year entailed.

Nothing made sense at all. Emma had read in _Hogwarts: A History_ that before 1980, the Head Boy and Girl of Hogwarts were allowed to be from the same House. What had happened in 1980 was a _completely_ unexpected student boycott by the _Hufflepuffs_, of all people. Apparently, two Gryffindors had been chosen as the Heads that year, causing an outroar amongst the Hufflepuffs, all of whom were sure that their star student and seventh year prefect, Richard Wallenby, was going to be Head Boy. And so they decided to voice out their grievances to the school administration by refusing to attend lessons for two straight weeks, claiming that blatant favoritism and the outright discrimination against their House made them too ill to do their homework. Eventually the rule was changed such that the Head Boy and Girl had to come from separate Houses, after which the Hufflepuffs resumed their lessons and skipped all of the mass detention sessions they were issued.

The perplexing thing to both Emma and Tristan was that the rule could be easily changed back by the Headmaster, and with so many Death Eaters about the school, the students would never dare to stage another boycott. So why hadn't Professor Snape made two Slytherins the Head Boy and Girl instead?

Emma Rosier-Vane was hardly the ideal candidate, compared to Pansy Parkinson.

...Okay, maybe not Pansy Parkinson.

The point is, the fact that her mother was a Rosier couldn't really make up for her being a Ravenclaw—therefore inferior, though slightly less inferior than Gryffindor and, god forbid, Hufflepuff—and her sister Romilda going around flaunting her "blood-traitorness" (as Regina put it). And aside from being one of the nastier Ravenclaws and occasionally hanging out with Draco, Emma had never publically showed any allegiance with the Death Eaters—so it really didn't matter that Bellatrix Lestrange was her first cousin twice removed. Most purebloods were related, anyway. Severus Snape was not a stupid man; that said, Emma and Tristan combined probably couldn't think of anything the former Potions Master haven't already thought of.

And Tristan. Why was he the Head Boy, for Merlin's sake? He was pureblood and the most devious wizard in the entire year—or school, even—but he was also _American_, which in the most esteemed British pureblood circles was pretty much synonymous with "troll". Nothing much was known about his family, except that his parents were killed and that he was lovingly (or terribly, depending on who he was talking to) brought up by his Squib uncle and Muggle aunt. He loved Muggle science and had shot Emma's pre-programmed pureblood superiority to pieces in their third year at Hogwarts. In fact, he was the one who came up with the theory (and wrote several research papers) that pureblood inbreeding was directly causing the increasing number of Squibs in old wizarding families!

Emma scowled and leaned back against her seat. Anything that she didn't know frustrated her, and this was driving her insane.

Beside her, Michael cast her a worried look, but it was an unspoken rule in Ravenclaw that one was never, ever, _ever_ to disturb a fellow housemate when they were Thinking.

Both Emma and Tristan had agreed that the most likely (and most frightening) reason for all of this was that the Death Eaters were trying to recruit them. Emma tightened her grip on her wand. Although Hermione Granger and Terry Boot were the ones who competed annually for first place for grades, the Hogwarts staff was more than aware that Emma and Tristan were two of the brightest (or the darkest, in Tristan's case) in the year—they had made sure of it.

What most of the staff _didn't _know was that they'd also (illegally) learnt Legilimency and Occlumency with Michael and Terry in their fifth year, and were just beginning to grasp the concept of projective Legilimency (which was something like telepathic communication). It would be difficult, but not impossible, for the Death Eaters to discover this; they had been putting up Occlumency barriers around Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape ever since Michael had conducted a rather disastrous experiment to see who at Hogwarts were Legilimen.

What else, mused Emma, mentally checking a list of their combined abilities. Their prospects were looking rather grim at the moment. Second and third place in the Hogwarts Dueling Championships last year (Tristan had deliberately lost). Extensive knowledge of curses and hexes, thanks to Tristan, who snuck her books from the Slytherins' private library. And not just the theory, either—both had practiced the Imperius Curse on each other last year (purely for Science, Tristan had claimed) and the Killing Curse on a couple of spiders and a dying fox they had found in the Forbidden Forest. Tristan seemed to know everything there was to know about potions (especially poison), while Emma's years of studying magical theory with Terry and Lisa had meant that she could do almost anything with a wand within the limits of magic.

If it was known...

What perfect little Death Eaters they would make.

They had long surmised that all the staff, portraits, ghosts and elves in Hogwarts had reported to Dumbledore when he was alive, which would explain why the old man seemed to have an uncanny knack for knowing everything that went on in the castle.

Emma was uncomfortably aware that many of the things they had done in school were highly illegal—enough to get several years in Azkaban each. If their theory about Hogwarts's secret information web was correct, then their extracurricular activities had surely not escaped Dumbledore's notice. Though Emma never had a one-on-one conversation with the former Headmaster, Tristan had. Several times, in fact. _Especially_ after That Incident, in which he'd gotten himself a lifelong ban from subscribing to every wizarding publication in Great Britain. It just meant that Tristan was definitely an object of Dumbledore's focus—he'd always complained that the "old coot" had never seemed to trust him.

Tristan always appeared to be extremely disconcerted by this. If Dumbledore had guessed what they were capable of, then they couldn't be sure that he hadn't shared his suspicions with anyone else. As long as there was even a _slight_ possibility that anyone_ else_ knew what Emma and Tristan could do, there was a possibility that the Dark Lord would find out about it.

So her original plan to keep her head down was definitely not an option now.

Emma sighed, then jumped a little as Hogwarts loomed into view. Never had the stone turrets and battlements of the castle looked more imposing, or threatening, even.

_I have nothing to offer you_, she thought, as a team of Death Eaters stopped her carriage and began their search for suspicious objects.

Her jaw tightened as one of them cast some sort of revealing spell over the seat. Another inspected her trunk. Emma stared stonily at where the thestrals were supposed to be. _How dare they—don't they know who I am?_

"Nothing here," said one of the masked men and waved the carriage through.

As Emma passed him, his profile caught the yellow light spilling from the castle's windows; his eyes followed her, two holes in the gleaming silver, a flat, almost soulless black that showed no sign of recognition. She shrank back into her seat.

She was stricken by the realization that none of the men who searched her carriage knew who she was, or even cared. The Dark Mark was spreading. The Death Eaters were now no longer limited to the adults whom she grew up around, who picked her up and swung her around and bought her expensive things; the men and women who were proud and beautiful and utterly merciless, if only to those who crossed them. Now the Death Eater ranks have swelled, with wizarding folk flocking in from all over Europe and the rest of the world, who didn't know her and didn't give a damn whether she lived or died.

The carriage rattled to a stop in front of Hogwarts' huge front gates.

_Oh, but I had rather have such men my friends than enemies._

* * *

The Great Hall was oddly quiet during the Sorting Ceremony, which was a first. Although attendance to Hogwarts was now mandatory for all students, there were miserably few additions to the school without the Muggle-borns. Some of the first years looked on the verge of fainting with terror, while others sauntered over to the stool and sat down with unmistakable Pureblood grace. They knew they would face no animosity because of their lineage.

But they were hardly invincible, reflected Emma from the Ravenclaw table as she clapped politely after each of them were Sorted.

Danger wasn't the only thing that could break you.

Finally, "Yaxley, Ezekiel" was made a Slytherin, and thin applause rang through the Hall while the Sorting Hat was put away.

Emma looked down the length of her table. Only seven new Ravenclaws this year. Kevin Entwhistle, Stephen Cornfoot and Lisa were conspicuously absent. Her eyes narrowed as she wondered if Lisa had been at Platform Nine and Three Quarters; a glance at Michael beside her told her that he was thinking the same thing.

_Please please please let her be okay._

From the staff table, the new Headmaster rose to his feet. On either side of him sat Carrow and—Emma pursed her lips incredulously—a man who'd somehow managed to look every bit as ugly as her. He, too, was dressed in Death Eater robes.

The war had penetrated Hogwarts. No one was safe anymore.

"I am Severus Snape, Headmaster of Hogwarts." At the sound of the familiar monotonous, silky voice, the Great Hall fell deathly silent. "There are a few— _notable_—changes that all students must be advised of. Joining us this year will be Professors Alecto and Amycus Carrow, the former teaching Muggle Studies and the latter teaching the Dark Arts."

The students began to whisper amongst themselves, shocked at the subject name change. But a glare from Professor Snape silenced them once more. "Muggle Studies is now mandatory for all students, and yes, Dark Arts will replace the former curriculum of Defense Against the Dark Arts." His tone was flat, as ever. Michael reached out and squeezed Emma's hand, cold fury etched across his handsome face.

"There will be no Quidditch Cup."

The whispering started again this time, much louder than the first. Michael's hand tightened over hers; Emma did not look at him. Her insides were boiling. Mere days ago she'd thought she would never be affected by the world exploding around her; she would pity the casualties, of course, but _she herself _would never be touched at all, would she?

How silly that seemed now.

"_Silence_. All student organizations, societies, teams, groups, and clubs are henceforth disbanded. An organization, society, team, group, or club is defined as a regular meeting of three or more students. Permission to re-form may be sought from either myself or the Professors Carrow. No student organization, society, team, group, or club may exist without my knowledge and approval. Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an organization, society, team, group, or club that has not been approved will suffer the... consequences." Emma closed her eyes. It was almost a word-for-word recitation of Educational Decree No. 24.

"_Umbitch_," hissed Su, and the Great Hall buzzed once more.

Emma twisted to glimpse at the Gryffindors, who were making the most noise. Neville Longbottom was looking as if he was going to be sick.

Snape didn't even bother to contain the hubbub this time—in fact, he sounded almost lazy. "All Hogsmeade permission forms must be resubmitted and your eligibility to Hogsmeade weekends will be reevaluated. Failure to abide by school rules will result in detentions overseen by the Professors Carrow, who has kindly agreed to double as the discipline master and mistress." Emma drew a sharp intake of breath as the Carrows smiled gleefully in unison. "That is all. You may eat."

Food materialized on the tables, but Emma wasn't particularly hungry. Michael released her hand to attack the scrambled eggs.

"Come on, Em," he said through a mouthful of egg. "The school's right screwed up, but you've got to eat something."

Knowing that protesting would only cause all of her friends to converge in on her, Emma grimly brought a small slice of quiche onto her plate.

"There, there," said Michael, and took a sausage, apparently satisfied.

Emma held her knife and fork like surgical implements and made a small incision across the quiche.

Opposite her, Su was ranting to Terry in a low voice. "...And no more Quidditch Cup? Does You-Know-Who _want_ us to hate him? Even that crazy Muggle _Hitler_ allocated leisure activities for his people!" She glanced at Emma and Michael apologetically. "Sorry. I know you guys were going to play this year."

Emma surreptitiously moved her hand to her thigh, where she had strapped a shrunken-down emergency broomstick. "It's fine. I'll get Professor Snape's permission to reform." She tried to smile. "Besides, perhaps we cannot blame the Dark Lord—I doubt we'll have 3740 hours of leisure time in our NEWT year."

Su chuckled; the rest looked confused. Emma sighed and took a measured sip of her pumpkin juice.

Terry leaned in, concerned. "You look a little peaky, Em. You alright?"

Emma gave a bitter laugh. "No." She looked across him to the Slytherin table, where Tristan was seated between Theo and Daphne Greengrass's little sister. None of them were touching their food. "None of us are, really."

The Ravenclaw girls' dormitory felt awfully empty without Lisa that night.


	6. 5: Mein Kampf and the Macbeth Effect

"Now," Alecto Carrow jabbed the blackboard with her rather stumpy-looking wand. "As you all know, the Wizangamot has recently passed a Muggle Legislation which states that no wizarding folk is allowed to marry, have sexual relations or in any way fraternize with a Muggle as of 7th September, 1997. The punishment for violating this law will be life imprisonment in Azkaban." Emma looked down at her desk, which contained her new Muggle Studies textbook and a copy of _Mein Kampf_, which she had Transfigured to look like _A Study of Wizarding Genealogy in Great Britain._ They had all read of the law in the _Prophet _at breakfast yesterday. "What a wonderful, wonderful improvement, don't you think?

"For centuries, we have wondered whether the wizarding world could ever recover its health, whether the Muggle problem can ever really be eradicated. The Dark Lord has cast away all of these worries. To stop a disease from spreading you would have to get to the root of the contamination." (Beside Emma, Su covertly rolled her eyes.) "The Dark Lord has done so. He knew, before anyone else, that this contamination, this poisoning of wizarding blood would not subside until fraternization with Muggles has been entirely outlawed. He knew the best way to kill a basilisk was to kill it in its shell, before it even hatches. And with that he has saved us all. Our blood will be cleansed of impurities, and the soul of wizarding society will be purged of evil."

It was odd to hear such grand, lofty words coming out of such a crude mouth; Carrow had memorized a speech by heart—that much was clear. And yet she spoke with a fervency and reverence that eliminated any doubt of whether she really knew what she was talking about. She did know, and she believed every word of it. Emma wanted to puncture the woman's delusion, or at the very least, stab her with a quill.

There was a scraping noise as Neville Longbottom rose from his chair—every eye in the classroom turned to him. Emma bit her lip and dropped her quill. It was always a Gryffindor. Seamus Finnigan had exploded in their very first Muggle Studies lesson and gotten detention—nobody really knew what happened during it, but his face was still pretty badly bruised.

Longbottom pointed a finger at Carrow and let out a short bark of laughter. " 'The soul of wizarding society will be purged of evil'? 'Bit hard with Voldemort prancing about these days, don't you think?"

Carrow's face flushed red with anger, and Emma briefly closed her eyes. Longbottom had changed a lot since the end of fifth year, and she really had her doubts whether it was for the better (although Padma did remark that he had lost his pudginess and was now, in fact, rather good-looking; Emma grudgingly agreed).

Longbottom continued, "So now that we are no longer allowed to 'fraternize' with Muggles, what does Voldemort expect us to do, inbreed ourselves to death?"

_Did Longbottom know about Hitler's _Lebensborn_?_ With a chill, Emma wondered if the Dark Lord was planning a wizarding equivalent.

Well, she was certainly not volunteering herself. Good relations with pureblood supremacists was one thing; giving birth to fifty million little pureblood children so that the Dark Lord would personally present her with a medal for Fantastic Motherhood and Contribution to Wizardkind was quite another matter.

"_You dare to call the Dark L_—" Carrow's voice rose dangerously as she trained her wand on Longbottom.

He looked unperturbed. "Yes, I dare. _Voldemort_. It's a name he gave himself, isn't it? If he doesn't want us to call him that... Well, why come up with some silly moniker like this in the first place? And _French_? _Really_? He _needs_ to try better than that."

Everyone in the room flinched as Carrow made a sudden movement; they were sure that she was going to strike him there and then. But instead she twisted around and, suddenly, Emma found herself face to face with the Death Eater. "Miss Rosier," said Carrow, a smile replacing the snarl on her face. "Stand."

Emma stood, feeling her whole body go rigid. One could almost hear the entire seventh-year cohort suck in their breath simultaneously.

She had a fleeting notion to inform Carrow that she got her name wrong, and was overcome by a completely inappropriate urge to laugh.

Carrow placed an affectionate hand on Emma's arm; Emma repressed a shudder as she looked down at the grimy, claw-like fingers, her brief, mad amusement evaporating. "Miss Rosier is going to demonstrate how to use the Cruciatus Curse on Mr Longbottom."

It took an insane amount of effort not to reveal the horror Emma was feeling on her face; instead she adopted a look of mild surprise and polite puzzlement. "Professor, we've only just covered the curse in Dark Arts, and we've only practiced on animals."

Carrow's smile widened. "This waste of magical blood will not be much different, I can assure you that." Emma's eyes flicked to Pansy Parkinson, and Carrow seemed to catch her meaning. "Oh, no, not this time. I just thought it would be interesting to _carry it down a generation_."

Emma had no idea what the woman was talking about, but Longbottom shook his head viciously and backed away, all defiance gone from his face, replaced with shock and outrage and... Was that fear?

"You look so much your aunt Bella, Emilia," crooned Carrow.

And suddenly everything clicked into place. Longbottom's expression... His parents had been tortured to insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange, it was in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. _AndEmma, she... She finally understood Carrow's twisted idea of a joke.

Emma found her voice. "My cousin, Professor. Not my aunt." It came out as barely more than a whisper.

"Of course, of course. The... eyes." Heavily-lidded and blue-grey, the infamous Rosier eyes had been passed down for twenty-one generations. "So would you do the honors?"

A moment of hesitation. Her eyes locked on Longbottom's wild brown ones.

"_Longbottom? Why, I have had the pleasure of meeting your parents, boy..." Bellatrix Lestrange's face came out of the darkness, a grin stretched across her emaciated face. His nose was broken and the wand in his hand wasn't his, but he was going to _kill_ her. But something was holding him back, and he writhed..._

_He was yelling at Harry. Don't, don't, _don't_ give them the Prophecy, and then—_

_"Crucio!" said Bellatrix._

_A blinding, obliterating, all-consuming agony swept across him—the worst pain he had ever experienced in his life—and he was on the floor. He forgot that he was too proud to scream or lie begging at _her_ feet, he just wanted it to stop, it was torture at its finest and every inch of his body was on fire and he could feel his mind coming apart at the seams and please please please make it stop ohgodohgodohgodstop..._

Emma's knuckles were stark white against her wand. If that was what a mere _memory_ of the Cruciatus Curse was like...

_(...So there was a Prophecy?)_

"Miss Rosier." Carrow's tone had lost all of the pseudo-sweetness now; it was a threat.

_I cannot—,_ thought Emma, and Neville's eyes widened with something like hope. It was the second time she had succeeded at projective Legilimency, but she really wasn't in the mood to celebrate.

Then she wiped her mind blank, as if she were preparing an Occlumency shield.

Carrow began to open her mouth, her piggy eyes narrowed, but Emma overrode her. "Crucio," she said dispassionately.

And Longbottom fell to the floor, screaming.

* * *

Moaning Myrtle shrieked in disappointment. It was not the Malfoy boy as she'd _hoped and hoped_, but a girl whose smooth composure had cracked like glass the second the bathroom door slammed behind her.

Myrtle shrieked again as a vicious streak of red light shot straight through her and left a smoking hole in the cubicle wall behind her.

"_Shut up_," said the girl in a deadly voice. Her wand clattered threateningly against the ceramic of a sink.

Myrtle drifted hastily through the hole the crazy girl had made and settled sulkily into the toilet bowl.

Outside, there was an awful screech of a long-unused tap being turned, and the sound of frantic hand-scrubbing.

"_Like slaps_," said a shaking, hiccoughing voice quietly, amidst the pattering of water on—_oh_, thought Myrtle jealously—skin.

Myrtle waited an hour for the girl to go away, but she didn't.

At last the ghost got bored and sucked herself down the toilet to taunt the Giant Squid.


	7. 6: High Treason at Midnight

_"Hypocrites," he said softly, "A few weeks down the road they'll be no better. By then they'll be making all manners of excuses for themselves—'oh, but we had no choice.' "_

* * *

Longbottom's punishment was the first of many to come. Any student who dared to cross the line would suffer the same fate—and as the sixth and seventh years had moved on from the Cruciatus to other advanced curses in Dark Arts, the methods of punishment for these foolish, wretched creatures became progressively more creative and stomach-churning to watch. Under the threats and watchful gazes of the Carrows, student was turned upon student, and soon the hallways were filled with a terse atmosphere of mutual fear and suspicion that made Hogwarts seem more like miniature warzone held on ceasefire than a haven for learning.

Unsurprisingly, it was the Slytherin students who were called on the most to hand out punishments, but to the rest of the Houses' bafflement, many of the students wearing green and silver ties looked—if possible—even unhappier than _they_ were.

Emma understood exactly why. After Longbottom's punishment the Carrows hadn't called on her again, but she was still having a miserable time. She was avoiding all of her friends (and, of course, Longbottom), practically camping out in a corner of the library and handing out poisonous looks to anyone who dared to come near. Wanting to reduce the time spent with her housemates as much as possible, she began to do nightly patrols, much to the Carrows' approval.

"_Lumos_," thought Emma, and a brilliant light emitted from the tip of her wand. It was nearly midnight, and she was doing her usual round on the sixth floor checking for students out of bed. With the stairwell now illuminated, she waited for the stairs to stop moving before going up a flight.

There was a scuffling noise as she reached the seventh floor. "Who's there?" she called sharply, then realized how stupid she sounded. "Show yourself!"

The corridor was empty. Emma exhaled. Probably a rat. She grimaced and lapsed back into her thoughts.

_The lips moved. _

_"Crucio." _

_He fell._

_Bellatrix's heavily-hooded eyes were gleaming out at him, mocking him. _

_But wait—he was seeing double, the pain of the curse had gone to his head at last, he was going mad, he was howling, wait, no, it was just one person, and she wasn't Bellatrix, she was, she wasn't, she was..._

Emma leaned heavily against the wall and balked at the mental image of her own face staring coolly out at her, uttering the Unforgiveable word, feeling the agony that followed. She really hadn't meant to use Legilimency on Longbottom after the Muggle Studies lesson. He had been walking shakily out of the classroom, supported by Finnigan, and as Emma tried to rush past him, he called out her name. When she'd turned around and met his gaze, the memory of his... punishment hit her like a brick wall, almost as if he was _projecting_ it to her.

Though, of course, he couldn't have, and she blamed herself for letting her guard down.

_But why hasn't it happened before?_ Asking herself that for what seemed like the thousandth time, Emma pressed her face against the wall, her head spinning. Longbottom's memories of her and Bellatrix had surfaced so constantly in her thoughts and nightmares that she felt like she was going insane.

A loud thud and a muffled "ouch!" sounded somewhere behind her.

Emma snapped around, embarrassed to have had a potential audience when she was showing such a moment of weakness.

"Stupefy!"

To her surprise, the red jet of light was deflected by a particularly strong Shield Charm. "No need to do that!" came a slightly indignant, disembodied voice.

Emma raised her wand warily, ready to attack again. There was a muttered incantation as a Disillusionment Charm was lifted.

She groaned inwardly. "Longbottom."

_Of course_ it was him.

He came a little closer to her, his hands raised above his head. "Look, here, don't hex me, alright?"

"Why out of bed at such an hour, Longbottom?" She kept her tone casual, as if she hadn't tortured him until he had to spend three nights in the Hospital Wing a couple of weeks ago.

"Well, I didn't know I'd run into you here."

She narrowed her eyes at his poor attempt at a joke. Bloody Gryffindors. Were all of them like that? "Very amusing, Longbottom. Twenty points from Gryffindor."

"You're not going to give me detention, are you?" His face was taut.

Emma sighed. With the Carrows conducting them, she wasn't. "Not if you tell me what you're up to and then do back to your dorm."

Longbottom seemed to contemplate this. "How about instead you tell me why you helped Ginny?"

She jerked back. "_I told you to extract that memory! You'll get me—us _killed_!_"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I did. I, uh, just..."

"Yes?" snarled Emma.

"I needed to, um. It wouldn't get us killed, I swear."

"And why is that so?" she practically spat.

"Er, because... Luna." He looked more than a little nervous under her venomous glare, and for the first time in nearly a year, Emma saw the clumsy, awkward boy that she'd once rather unkindly mocked in the hallways.

"Homenum Revelio!" There was nobody else in the vicinity. "She's not here," sneered Emma.

"I was going to meet her—"

"The Ravenclaw Tower is on the other side of the castle, Longbottom."

He was quiet for a while. "You haven't answered me."

Emma was about to ask him what gave him the right to ask such things—then she remembered that she had _tortured_ him, after all. "Because she could have been hurt," she said shortly.

"Are you a blood purist?" asked Longbottom abruptly.

Emma stared at him. "No. It's unscientific. Though I cannot deny that coming from an old pureblood family lends you a certain... prestige."

"Why do you call Voldemort the Dark Lord, then? Only Death Eaters do that."

She was getting annoyed. "It's just a Rosier thing."

"Your dad is not a Rosier."

She was very annoyed now. "My father calls him the Dark Lord, too; he works with goblins. _Enough _with the personal questions, Longbottom."

He chose to ignore her. "Are you a supporter of Voldemort?"

"I fail to see if it's any of your business," hissed Emma dangerously, "Now tell me what you're doing here."

In a truly admirable exhibition of Gryffindorness, Longbottom pretended not to have heard her and ploughed valiantly on. "I don't think you are, Vane."

Perhaps it was his decision not to address her as "Rosier", or even "Rosier-Vane" that did it.

Emma cast thirteen security charms before replying, much to Longbottom's amusement. "This is treason," she hissed, once she was done. "But you're right." Seeing Longbottom's expression, she went on before he could ask. "But I don't have much faith in the whole Chosen One hype, either. Even _if_—and that's one huge and highly skeptical _IF_—Potter could kill the Dark Lord, surely he couldn't finish off all the Death Eaters. This is not like the last war, Longbottom. The Dark Mark has spread. The Death Eaters are no longer just a bunch of scary British blokes who'd disband the moment the Dark Lord falls. As long as his legacy still lives... Dispose of the leader, and another will take his place—like the head of a hydra."

Longbottom shot her a very odd look. "Would you fight against the Death Eaters to stop them once and for all?"

"This is treason," said Emma coolly.

"Just answer me."

"If I am threatened, I would defend myself," she allowed, expressionless.

"You do have it in you, after all!" Longbottom smiled in a satisfied sort of way. "So would you join us, then?"

"Would I—pardon?"

He fished out a fat golden Galleon from his robes and seemed to write something on it with his wand. Emma fixed her own wand on his chest. "What are you doing?" Was it a message to the Carrows to tell them what she had said? Was this revenge? Oh, she'd make sure they would never believe him...

"_Emma_, hold on."

She blinked at the use of her first name, but was quickly distracted by the sound of footsteps. She removed the security charms; if it were Filch or a teacher, she didn't want it to look suspicious.

"Neville!" a hushed, excited voice came out of the shadows. Another Disillusionment Charm was lifted. It was Colin Creevey.

"Potter's old fan club president?" Emma was surprised.

Longbottom frowned. "You sound almost exactly like Malfoy."

"All in the family." Emma waved it off and peered at the mousy-haired newcomer, who was also holding a Galleon. "Aren't you Muggle-born?"

"Nay, turns out my mum's a Squib. Barely was able to come back."

Emma gave a mild "hm" with a _tiniest_ hint of condescension, before swiveling back to Longbottom. "What is he doing here? And _exactly _how many Gryffindors are out of bed tonight? Another ten points from Gryffindor!"

Creevey looked as if he was going to argue, but Longbottom admonished, "_Colin._"

"_Well?_" Emma was scowling freely at both of them now.

Creevey glanced at her shiftily. "Can you keep a secret?"

She nodded. _I'll assume you're asking me about keeping secrets_ in general. _So this isn't a promise._

"A serious secret," said Longbottom. His voice was steady, despite the thin film of perspiration between his upper lip and nose.

Emma silently performed a few calculations. Whatever the secret, Longbottom did not think she would betray him if he was willing to share. Which was highly suspicious, seeing as they were far from friends and she had Crucioed him once, for Merlin's sake. Yet there was no advantage to be gained from not hearing it. And if it was something illegal, then it was _very much_ to her advantage to know it.

There was definitely a possibility that it was a trap of some sort, but if _Neville Longbottom_ thought he could outwit _her_, he had another think coming.

"I would like to hear it." Her tone was even.

Creevey looked a little wary. "Wait, Neville, is this...? Are you sure about—"

"Yeah."

"But isn't she the one who—"

"Colin, just say it," whispered Longbottom hastily.

Emma watched this exchange with a mounting sense of trepidation. Something seemed wrong about this, but she couldn't place her finger on exactly what...

The younger wizard drew a deep breath. "Dumbledore's Army is meeting at the Room of Requirement."

"...Is this some sort of joke?"


	8. 7: The Cage

After recasting Disillusionment Charms on themselves and telling Emma to do the same, Longbottom and Creevey led her down the corridor and around several corners. With one hand clutching Longbottom's robes and the other keeping her wand trained on him (well, he couldn't see it anyway), she was only vaguely aware that they were heading somewhere in the direction of the Clock Tower.

The Gryffindors were being annoyingly mysterious about the whole thing, but she had her guesses. Dumbledore's Army—wasn't that the little club Potter had started in fifth year to learn defensive magic? Michael had told her about it, but as far as she knew they'd stopped meeting after Umbridge was sacked.

It was highly probable that Longbottom or somebody restarted it this year, only this time they were making it a real army. Or what they thought was one, anyway. Emma rolled her eyes, apprehensive; any "army" led by _Neville Bloody Longbottom _wouldn't last five minutes against a couple of competent Death Eaters. _Now he was dragging _her_ into this? _What would he achieve by that? What made him so sure she wouldn't tell on him?

Longbottom made a noise for them to stop walking. They were standing in front of a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to do ballet; Emma briefly considered what jinx she should use on him if it turned out to be a prank.

There was a soft rumble from behind. Emma whirled around, but didn't see anything. She let go of Longbottom's robes and, as he stumbled, dug her nails into his wrist, feeling a stab of pleasure as he squirmed in discomfort. "_What are you playing at, Longbottom_?"

"_Yeowch_—think about what Colin said!"

Creevey's words briefly flitted through her mind. _"Dumbledore's Army is meeting at the Room of Requirement."_

As soon as she thought of this, an impressive set of double doors appeared in the blank wall.

Longbottom chuckled. "Can you let go of me now, Emma?"

Emma was too flabbergasted to inform him sharply that, no, they were _not_ on first-name basis, no matter what, thank you very much. "A... A Fidelius Charm?" Her voice faltered.

Both boys laughed. "Not in Ravenclaw for nothing, are you?"

She looked wildly between the sources of their voices.

So that was what had been bugging her. A Fidelius Charm, _of course_! She _couldn't_ tell on them, even if she wanted to—they'd lured her into a cage and locked the door. Better to bring her under the Charm in case she found out by herself.

They'd likely been planning this ever since the day she Crucioed Longbottom. Longbottom had merely lucked out by running into her tonight.

Emma tried to fight for some sense of control, grasping at million jumbled half-finished thoughts for a way—_any_ way—out of this. "Ingenious," she said coolly, glad that her face couldn't be seen. "Whose idea was it? Not either of yours, of course."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," said Longbottom, but he didn't sound offended. "And you'll find out soon enough." There was a hint of amusement in his voice, which Emma _definitely_ did not like.

But a small part of her was relieved that the so-called "Dumbledore's Army" had at least taken some form of advanced security measures. If she remembered correctly, the Fidelius Charm wouldn't give away anything even if someone else were using Legilimency on you. _Only you_ could access any thoughts related to the hidden location. No wonder Longbottom hadn't been caught by Professor Snape yet, if he'd been conspiring against the Death Eaters in the Room of Requirement. Very clever.

"Ready?" said Longbottom.

Emma sighed, her curiosity overtaking her pride. "Fine, show me."

He pushed open the doors, and they went in.

They were in a cavernous hall with wooden panels where banners of the Ravenclaw eagle, Gryffindor lion and Hufflepuff badger hung. The place was littered with books, comfortable-looking chairs and curious little gadgets that Emma recognized as Dark Detectors. Lined up on each side of the room were wooden practice targets shaped like real wizards, with their faces obscured by horribly familiar-looking masks.

It looked suspiciously like an Auror training ground. Despite herself, Emma was impressed—Dumbledore's Army was really taking the "army" part seriously.

Then she realized that there were forty or so people in the Room who'd stopped whatever they were doing, and were staring directly at them.

Before either of them could react, the heavy doors slammed shut and they were pinned against the thick mahogany.

The back of her head hurting where it had slammed onto the wood, Emma looked painfully up to see Weasley standing before her, her wand outstretched.

"Ow, Ginny! S'all right, it's just me and Colin!" came Longbottom's voice from somewhere to Emma's left. "We brought a new addition."

The redhead hesitated. "What was the name of the plant you carried onto the Hogwarts Express two years ago?"

"Um, a Mimbulus Mimbletonia?"

Weasley visibly relaxed. With a flick of her wand, the three of them crumpled to the ground, and there was a light tap on each of their heads as their Disillusionment Charms were lifted. Straightening her robes, Emma got furiously to her feet at being treated in such a manner.

"You really didn't have to do that, Gin," said Longbottom ruefully as he and Creevey scrambled up after her.

"Sorry," replied Weasley unapologetically. "With you being half an hour late for the meeting and Colin so suddenly summoned, I had to check." Her eyes shifted to rest on Emma.

Was it her imagination, or did they glint almost... triumphantly?

"I was already running late; had to finish my Potions essay. Then I ran into _her_."

Emma bristled. "I was just doing my duty—"

"By deducting thirty points from Gryffindor," added Longbottom.

"—when Longbottom here _apparently decided on a whim_ that I should join this little army of yours." Emma raised an eyebrow.

At this, an arrogant grin spread slowly across Weasley's freckled face; she had clearly been the mastermind.

"So welcome to Dumbledore's Army, then." Smugly, she held out her hand for Emma to shake.

Seized with a sudden vindictiveness, Emma stared at it just long enough for an awkward blush to creep up the redhead's cheeks. Only then did she reach out coolly to accept the handshake—not without noting the irony in using her pureblood etiquette lessons to deliberately be rude.

Being tricked into the binds of the Fidelius Charm had placed Emma in an ill temper. It wasn't as if she actually wanted to betray them, but—however irrationally—she was absolutely _spitting_ mad that the _right_ to betray them had been stripped from her.

She'd _helped _the ungrateful sods in the Hogwarts Express—_and this was how they repay her?_

"Are you just going to sulk there or are you going to properly introduce yourself to the DA?" said Weasley irritably.

The horrid handshake had apparently managed to infect Weasley with her foul mood; Emma was so pleased by this that she didn't bother coming up with a nasty retort.

"I'm Emma Vane," she said in a ringing voice, deciding that it was best to leave out the "Rosier" part, like Romilda always did. There was a gasp, and she caught sight of a mane of dark brown hair before it disappeared behind a Hufflepuff fifth-year. Emma frowned. "I certainly had no intention of joining you; I was merely brought under the Fidelius Charm against my will so I couldn't give you away. As Head Girl, I _thank _you for your trust in me.

At any rate, I'll have you know that just because there's a Fidelius Charm doesn't mean someone outside of it won't find out."

"Is that a threat?" said Weasley loudly, as certain DA members made noises of outrage.

"No," replied Emma. "I won't try to do you any harm; I'm just telling you there are people out there who will. That's all."

The Room was quiet.

Emma took the moment to properly look through the DA members, mentally noting those whom she recognized. Almost all the Gryffindor upper-years were there, as were most of the Hufflepuffs.

She stopped dead as she locked eyes with Michael.

_He was there._

Emma tore her eyes from him to search the crowd. Terry was there. Su was there. Tony. Padma.

Each discovery felt like a slap.

_They were part of the DA, and they didn't tell her._

_They were her _friends_, and they didn't trust her._

_And now she was here _because _they didn't trust her._

_And..._

There was a collective exclamation of surprise as Emma marched towards the crowd. Michael flinched, but she walked right past without sparing him a glance.

A stocky Hufflepuff wizard let out a yell as she shoved him aside to reveal the girl hiding behind him.

It was Romilda.

They stared at each other.

The people around them scooted instinctively away, as if they were a pair of uncaged Hungarian Horntails.

"Um," said Creevey from somewhere behind them.

Nobody even so much as looked at him.

The very air seemed to be crackling with tension; both sisters had their wands out now. Emma took a step forward.

"UM!" hollered Longbottom, who'd apparently failed to come up with anything else to say.

Very reluctantly, the DA turned to face him.

Longbottom turned slightly purple at the unexpected attention. "Um. Um, so we'll resume practicing Patronus Charms, alright? Since there's a lot of new members this year... We've got to make sure all of us can cast it. May come in handy."

Emma drew a slow, shaky breath before lowering her wand. Romilda looked like she wanted to die of relief.

"So we'll all pair up then," said Longbottom, sounding a lot more confident. "Emma, we'll be partners this time."

Slightly disappointed that there would be no further drama, the DA did as they were told, and soon the Room was filled with silvery mist and cries of "Expecto Patronum!".

"Come on," said Longbottom in Emma's ear, and pulled her to a quieter corner of the Room.

"Kindly remove your hand from my person."

Sighing, Longbottom let go of her arm. "Are you going to tell me what the hell that was about?"

"Again, I fail to see what business it is of yours," said Emma waspishly.

"Technically, I'm the leader of the DA, so anything to do with our members concerns me."

Emma drew herself to her full height—and found she was still at least a head shorter than Longbottom. "I suppose you think you're quite something, don't you? _Leader of the DA_," she practically spat, "You're hardly even qualified to teach these spells, let alone head a bloody resistance movement against the Dark Lord. They're _children_! _You_ are barely more than a child yourself, and you want to pull my sister into battle?"

Longbottom had the nerve to look shocked. "I'm just teaching them how to defend themselves—"

She laughed derisively. "As if that's all you plan to do! Don't take me for a fool, Neville Longbottom. You put a Fidelius Charm on your meeting place. You use fake Death Eaters for target practice. Isn't that a bit much for a _study group_?"

He held up a hand. "We all know the time will come for a battle. We're just preparing, Emma."

"_Don't call me that!_ You're preparing for _suicide_, Longbottom."

"I know there might be casualties—"

"Casualties? _Casualties?_ Just how many children are you planning to sacrifice in your pursuit to be a _shining war hero_?" She spat out the last three words. Longbottom looked thunderstruck. "Don't kid me for a second that any of you can last more than ten minutes against a decent Death Eater! What are you going to use against Bellatrix Lestrange, '_Expelliarmus_'? If you want to end up like your parents, that's your prerogative. I'll even pay for a bloody monument built in your honor, but if _Roda's_ name ends up on that thing, too, _I'll beat Bellatrix to torturing you to insanity._"

Longbottom blanched, and Emma knew she'd gone too far.

"I apologize," she said quietly. "That was uncalled for."

He shook his head, almost blindly. "S'alright. I understand."

The scarlet of the Gryffindor tapestry behind him was so glaring that Emma had to turn away. "Will you make my sister drop out, then?"

"No." He sounded sympathetic, the bastard. "I wish I could, but it really is her choice whether she wants to fight."

"She'd never drop out, then. You know Roda. She never did know what's best for her."

Longbottom fiddled with a loose thread from his sweater. "Maybe she's doing the right thing."

Emma ran a finger down the silver mask of one of the fake Death Eaters; she almost could feel every drop of blood running icily through the veins of her arm.

"Maybe," she echoed, and sighed, as if giving up. "And maybe she'll be alright with you people. After all—the Fidelius Charm." She shook her head, permitting a small smile to appear on her lips. "Quite, quite brilliant."

He looked at her, surprised and a little suspicious. "You really think so?"

"We Ravenclaws always appreciate a bit of ingenuity." She patted him on the forearm.

"Thanks," he said, reddening slightly.

"But I'm afraid I don't quite understand exactly how it works," said Emma innocently. "So Weasley came up with the idea, made herself Secret Keeper... But how come Creevey was able to tell me about it? Have you got two Secret Keepers, or more? Is that advisable?"

Longbottom smiled. "Nah, it's just Colin."

"Why him, though? Surely you or Weasley would be better..."

"Too obvious." He looked delighted with himself. "Nobody would suspect Colin, and he's amazingly loyal."

"So the Fidelius Charm only stops working if he betrays you or—"

"But he'd never. He'd sooner die than betray us, I know that. Only then would the charm be broken."

They watched Luna produce a silvery rabbit, which skipped gracefully in circles around her. Beside her, Creevey's brow was furrowed in concentration, but his gerbil Patronus still looked rather wispy.

"Did he say his mother is a squib?" Emma's tone was light.

"...Yea, why?"

"Not a lot of difference between a muggle and a squib, is there?"

Longbottom froze. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"_Avada Kedavra_." There was a small, controlled flash of green light, and a spider an inch away from Longbottom's foot fell still.

He turned deathly pale. "_You wouldn't_. You were _horrified _when you had to _Crucio_ me, you wouldn't _kill_—"

"Don't tell me what I would or would not do for Roda, Longbottom." Her eyes glittered. "My sister is getting married next week. Most of the people attending the wedding will be more than interested to hear what I have to say about Creevey. I wouldn't even get my hands dirty. Just a little mudblood boy who wanted to play soldier... _Poor, poor Colin_."

Something about the way she said it seemed to stun both of them momentarily.

Longbottom recovered first. _"What do you want?"_

"What do you think? She's my sister!"

They glared at each other. "You're killing someone to save another," said Longbottom finally. "It doesn't make any sense."

Emma took a deep, calming breath. "If you do as I wish, _nobody_ would die. You thought I could've been dangerous, so you locked me in a cage—but what you don't know is that you've locked _yourself_ in with me. If you help me, I'll help you."

"No. We'll switch Secret Keepers," said Longbottom fiercely. "And you'll never find out who."

"I don't understand how that logic works, since my tongue may just _slip _anyway..."

He massaged his temples and exhaled. "Fine, what are your terms?"

Emma raised her chin. "You have to keep Roda from being directly involved in any sort of mission or battle whatsoever. You are to lie to her if you have to."

"I'm going to have to discuss this with Ginny and Luna."

"That's fine. So you'll agree to an Unbreakable Vow when they say yes—which they will?"

"No!"

Emma sniffed. "Sure. Doesn't matter to _Colin_ anyway."

Longbottom closed his eyes for a long moment before saying, "Emilia Rosier-Vane, I really thought you were—"

The disappointment in his voice stung; Emma couldn't explain why it mattered. She gritted her teeth and interrupted him before he could say anything worse. "Also promise me the DA isn't going to carry out some petty, stupid act of rebellion against the Carrows simply for the hell of it."

"We have to keep our hopes up by taking action, Vane."

"The Carrows don't strike me as the particularly forgiving type."

"No," he agreed. "But sticking up for what we believe in is easier than what you're doing now."

Emma narrowed her eyes. "Oh, and what's that?"

"Flitting back and across the battle line, unsure of where your loyalties really lie, manipulating things to your own advantage. That can just as easily get you killed."

She gave a dismissive shrug. "Don't judge what you don't know, Longbottom." But she couldn't help wondering about what he said.


	9. 8: Rejecting Reality

In the fifth-year Gryffindor girls' dormitory, Emma sat cross-legged on one of the four-poster beds with the curtains drawn around her, staring fixedly on a point on a wall.

She'd refused Longbottom's half-hearted offer of teaching her the Patronus Charm, and had walked out of the meeting before deciding to spring an ambush on Romilda.

Her sister had never been good at dealing with nasty surprises, so naturally Emma aimed to exploit this as much as possible by guilt-tripping Romilda into giving up the DA while she was still trying to get over the shock.

Just in case Longbottom didn't give in to her blackmail, in the end. (No, of course she wasn't going to kill Creevey, what sort of person did you think she was?)

So there she was, lying in wait.

Emma lifted a corner of the curtain to check the clock on the bedside table. It was truly a horrifying clock—all scarlet and acid green—that rudely shrieked the time if you so much as happened to glance at its face. Emma had silenced it the second she walked into the room; now its hands meekly stated that it was one thirty in the morning.

She fell back with an audible "whump" onto the bedspread. When was the bloody meeting ending?

The whole point of the night's meeting was faintly ridiculous.

For heavens' sake, Dumbledore's Army was learning to _cast silver bunny rabbits_. Silver bunny rabbits!

Emma didn't see any reason why _she_ would need to cast the Patronus Charm. There were Dementors everywhere now, but even so the probability of simply _bumping _into one in the street was extremely low. If those creatures had any sort of sense they would feed on Muggles (they were free now anyway to do whatever they pleased), instead of randomly attacking a witch who may know how to repel them with a bunny rabbit.

She'd told Longbottom just that, and he had thrown her a very incredulous look before bursting into laughter. Which surprised and annoyed her, because a mere few minutes ago she'd been threatening the life of one of his friends. Then he choked out, between peals of "hahahaha"s that Potter had ran into not one, but _two_ Dementors in his fifth year, and nearly got his soul sucked out, even though he knew the Patronus Charm. Then Longbottom inquired, still laughing, what chance _she _thought she stood against a rogue Dementor.

Emma'd given him A Look before pointing out that

He was _Potter_, so if two random Dementors were feeling bored and decided to go running after anyone, then _of course_ it would be him because _all_ bad things happened to Harry Potter.

If Potter knew the Patronus Charm and still nearly got his soul sucked out, then obviously learning to cast the Patronus wasn't much help, especially now that Dementors traveled in flocks of hundreds, _which was more than two_, which meant that you'd be a goner either way so why learn it?

Longbottom stopped laughing, and said, "That isn't very Ravenclaw of you."

"I presented my argument in a concise and logical manner, how is that unlike a Ravenclaw?"

"I meant not wanting to learn new things..." A look of comprehension spread across Longbottom's face, followed by something awfully like pity. "You don't want to try because you're afraid you _couldn't_ cast it."

That was when Emma asked him coldly if he knew that _Godric Gryffindor_ couldn't cast the Patronus Charm, and flounced out.

Emma glared at the ceiling from Romilda's bed.

Longbottom was wrong. So wrong.

Emma had refused to learn it because _she didn't want to believe that she'd ever have to cast it. _

It was silly, and she knew it. It was against everything she'd ever learned about rational thinking, but facing the whole reality of the war was simply too much for her at the moment. She really didn't want to think that she might one day end up face to face with a Dementor, or worse.

Oh, she'd deal with it some day. But, Merlin, not now.

Casting the Patronus Charm was admitting that you were weak, that you needed protection. If—_if _she wanted to learn it she was going to need time, and she was going to learn it _herself._

_How _dare _he pity her._

Longbottom could take his _pity_ and place it up his—

A babble of voices floated up from the stairwell outside the dormitory, followed by some shrill giggling. Emma sat up.

Romilda and her gang were back. The entire batch of fifth-year Gryffindor girls had joined Dumbledore's Army, no doubt coerced by her sister.

Emma waited impatiently as the girls showered and changed, chattering away the whole time.

"I almost got the hang of it—"

"Mine was just kind of this silver mist—"

"I think I succeeded once, but I dunno what it was. Something large..."

There was more shrill giggling—"You think Neville's been working out?"—before, finally, even more giggling and a chorus of goodnights.

Someone switched off the dormitory light.

The curtains of the four-poster were pulled open, and suddenly Emma found herself face-to-face with her sister.

Even in the dim lighting, the way Romilda's smile vanished was quite spectacular. She opened her mouth to scream.

Emma reached forward and seized her sister, using one hand to clamp her mouth shut. Both girls tumbled onto the bedspread with a flurry of limbs and hair. With much difficulty, Emma freed her wand hand to close the curtains and cast a Silencing barrier around the bed.

She released her grip around Romilda's mouth.

"AAAAARRRRHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" screamed Romilda.

"In here, no one can hear you scream," said Emma calmly.

Romilda did not seem to get the reference. "HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?" She grabbed Emma by her shoulders and rattled her thin frame.

"Release me at once," said Emma, in a commanding tone she'd learnt from Regina. Seeing that Romilda wasn't about to do anything like that anytime soon, she sighed and said instead, "As Head Girl I know the password to all the common rooms, what'd you think?"

Romilda muttered something under her breath. Emma thought she caught the phrase "forces of evil" and something that sounded like "clucking bell".

"Don't be coarse, Roda—No!" Romilda had made a move to escape.

"_Emma.._."

_"Roda..."_

"Oh, bloody hell, _fine._"

Emma crossed her legs and steepled her fingers. "I'm not going to give you a whole lecture on upholding family values, because I know you've got it all by heart now and it hasn't made a damned difference. But... Pray tell, exactly what do you hope to achieve by joining Dumbledore's Army?"

"What the Death Eaters are doing... I've never seen anything so _wrong,_" declared Romilda, her eyes shining, not quite realizing she wasn't answering the question. "All my life—_all _our_ lives_—we've grew up among them, but I know evil when I see it. When can you do the same?"

It was the first time Romilda had so openly stated her allegiance, even though she was a Gryffindor. Regina had graduated and wasn't around to accuse her of being a "blood traitor". Those words only had power when Regina said it; she was the only one who could truly _hurt_ Romilda that way.

Emma had never been an affectionate sister, and it felt strange to both of them when she placed a hand on Romilda's shaking shoulder. It'd been a long time since they had a proper conversation. "It's not our war, Roda."

"Godammit!" Romilda's voice rose in frustration, and she banged a fist down on the bed, making both of them wobble. "It's _my_ war and I want it to be. They should at least know they're not going to get away with _everything_ without earning a few enemies."

Emma looked at the wild-haired fifteen-year-old girl in front of her, who'd just announced herself the enemy of the _Death Bloody Eaters_. "Roda, I've read in a book once that the real enemy is _anyone_ who's going to get _you_ killed, no matter which side he's on. _This applies to Neville Longbottom_, do you understand?"

"The world doesn't need people who understand things like you," said Romilda with bitter conviction, "It needs people who will make it a better place."

"The hell it does, if the latter are all dead in a matter of seconds."

"I don't want to die, Em," said Romilda, drawing her knees to her chin and yawning widely. "But I don't want them to live, either."

"Is that worth dying for?"

Romilda thought for a while. "It's worth living for. And if I die in the process, well—we're all going to die anyway, so what the hell." Romilda plopped herself onto Emma's lap and spontaneously fell asleep.

* * *

Dear Rena,

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU INVITED "COUSIN BELLATRIX" TO YOUR WEDDING?

Emma


End file.
